


Kool-Aid

by RollingPeaches



Series: Get Shot and Fuckin' Die [3]
Category: Sand Castle (2017)
Genre: Anxiety, Cussing, F/M, Mild PTSD?, Swearing, depictions of a shoot out, sassing of Syverson, sassing of her partner Reece
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 17:33:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RollingPeaches/pseuds/RollingPeaches
Summary: Syverson is feeling lonely, he gives Jasmine a call to brighten up his day—it doesn’t work.





	1. Sweet Stuff

Syverson was pissed off. It was hot. Iraq was a shit show. His superiors were a shit show. His subordinates were a shit show. They were never going to get out of this hell hole, a never-ending loop of new men being sent to do the same job—replace the water system—and failing. Either because of their own incompetence or the locals refusal to work with them. For once, he was ready to be out of the fucking military. He snatched up the phone and dialed her number.

“Lane,” her answer came sharp and short. He glanced at his watch, realized it was about two in the afternoon there, she was probably working.

“You busy?” he asked, like a caveman, not even a proper greeting.

“Reece, I said _right_ ,” her voice ordered, a little further from the phone.

Followed by her partner’s voice declaring, “Fuckin’ construction down 5th, we’re taking a detour.”

“Sorry, my partner’s incompetent,” she sniped into the phone, then shouted, “This is a one-way street!” Followed by the sound of a siren wailing to life.

“I swear to everything satanic and unholy,” she griped out.

“I can call back,” he started.

“No,” she cut off, “what’s up?”

He breathed out slowly, stared down at his boots, fuck, now that he had her attention, he had nothing to say. He just…wanted someone to bitch to, someone to listen to, to pretend at a modicum of normalcy instead of this demented ground hog’s day life he was living.

“Everything alright?” she asked after he let the silence stretch too long. Another pause, “Did someone steal your sriracha?” she tried to lighten the mood, “I can send more, don’t worry.”

“I think I’m set on hot sauce.”

“I was thinking, next box will be sweet things. You like sweet stuff?”

“Sure, I like sweet stuff.”

“Shit, Sy, don’t give too much detail, wouldn’t want to send you something you actually _want_.”

“I want whatever you send me,” and shit, okay, that was a little too desperate sounding, wasn’t it?

“So, if I send a shit-ton of Kool-Aid, you’ll be cool with that?”

“Grape’s the best.”

“Excuse you?” her voice was accusatory, “I’ll have you know, blue-raspberry is the best.” And then tacked on to her partner, “Brake, brake, _brake_!”

His lips quirked up, “Blue raspberry’s alright, grape’s the shit.”

He heard grumbling but couldn’t make out what specifically, then a muttered, “Thank god,” and a car door slamming. “You think, next time, Reece, you could, I don’t know, run into a tree or something? End on a high note.”

“Girl. Shut up,” the man sassed back, “You drive worse than I do.”

“When we’re chasing a suspect,” she countered. “I’ll see what I can do on the grape Kool-Aid front,” she assured him, then, “Shit,” and gun shots rang out.

“Lane?” he asked. More shots rang out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he heard her muttering, then yelling out, “Reece?!”

She was moving away from her phone. “Lane,” he tried, “Jasmine!”

Nothing, then, “Officer, down, I repeat, officer down. Need backup at 1593 W. 7th Ave. Send a bus!”

More gun shots, then answering gun shots, she or Reece were returning fire. But the noise was being drowned out, a high-pitched ringing was making its way into his senses. He blinked, shook his head. He wasn’t often on this side of things, only a few times when he was back at base and a team he was overseeing was ambushed. But fuck, if this wasn’t a shit way of finding out what all of his ex’s went through, worrying about him in a dangerous situation. He sat down heavily, breathed in slowly, focused on the second hand of the clock on the wall, tic, tic, tic.

After a few minutes, the high-pitched whine trailed off, he realized that the line was dead, he hung up, thought a moment, then scrambled for the scrap of paper buried somewhere on his desk. The number for Hughes. He swept folders onto the ground in his haste, overturned a pencil cup, gave up searching the top of the desk and yanked open a few drawers before finally coming up with it. He dialed quickly.

“Yeah,” the voice was clipped.

“Where the hell is Lane?” he demanded.

“Who is—Captain Syverson?” Hughes asked out.

“Where’s Lane?”

“She-there’s an officer involved shooting, I’m heading to the scene now.”

“Was she hit or Reece?”

“How do you know—”

“Hughes,” he bit out.

“Unclear at this time.”

“Keep me informed,” he ordered, then hung up. Hughes’ answer on loop in his skull, _unclear at this time. Unclear at this time. Unclear at this time_.

FUCK.


	2. Officer Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reece is taken to the hospital and Syverson finally gets ahold of Lane.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jasmine sang out as she scrambled back behind their unmarked, department issued car, then carefully peered over the trunk, only to duck back down as three bullets slammed into the vehicle. “Reece?!” she yelled out. She heard a low groan, but nothing more. He’d been hit, just, was it the vest or was he bleeding out?

She duck-walked to the driver’s door, cracked the door open and lunged for the radio before ducking back down behind the car, “Officer, down, I repeat, officer down. Need backup at 1593 W. 7th Ave. Send a bus!”

“Reece!” she yelled out.

“Wha?!” he yelled back.

“Can you move?”

“I don’t—” he was breathing unevenly, ragged and wet sounding, _shit_.

“Laying down cover, you slide between the cars, ready? GO,” she shot up, ringing off four shots at the window where the shooting was coming from. The curtain shifted, and she ducked down, then crawled to the front of the car, Reece had made it. She reached out, grabbed him by the shirt collar, and dragged him towards her, and behind the protection of the car. She heard sirens approaching, she had to move him, the paramedics wouldn’t come through until the situation was dissolved, he may not have that level of time.

“Alright,” she muttered, “C’mon,” she hefted his arm over her shoulders, ducked low and waited. Finally, two squad cars came squealing onto the road. She popped up, shot off three more rounds, and then she was empty. She had a backup clip in her boot, but the uni’s were already jumping out of their vehicles and popping off shots. As soon as they were laying down cover, she hefted Reece’s big body up onto her shoulders and back and beelined it for the intersection.

“Go, go, go!” A uni yelled, waving her on, and jumping in the line of any potential oncoming bullets. She made it to the intersection and shrugged him off as gently as possible. She ejected the empty clip, snapped her extra into place. Then pulled her knife from her boot and sliced off his shirt.

“Alright, Reece, let’s see what we’re working with,” she muttered, pulling back on the bullet proof vest he was wearing and pressing her hand down, trying to feel for blood.

“Shit, girl, Alexis is gonna kill you,” he rasped out.

“Pretty sure, your wife won’t care that I’m groping you, so long as you don’t die.”

“Nah,” he muttered, leaning to the side and spitting, “She loved this shirt.”

She snorted out a laugh, then turned as the ambulance came to a stop, they loaded him up, and she clamored in after him.

*****

She was sitting in Reece’s hospital room when Hughes stepped in, he held out her phone, and whispered lowly, “Recovered from the scene.”

Right, she inspected it, it seemed, surprisingly okay.

“Syverson’s gonna call,” Hughes stated and she blinked, _shit_. She stood and strode from the room. She answered on the first ring.

“Hey,” she murmured lowly, staring out a dark window.

“Jasmine,” he breathed out, by other people, it didn't sound so breathy or even relieved sounding, on him, it was as if she’d told him Santa was real.

“I’m sorry, I—”

“I get it,” he cut off.

Silence, she blinked slowly, eased back against the wall and slide down it.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Your partner?”

“He’s…it caught him in the vest,” she informed, then an exhausted, relieved, almost manic giggle crawled up her throat, “Right where you were shot, actually. I think I’m bad luck.”

He huffed out a slight laugh. They fell back into silence, and it was like she was transported back to his room, after the fight with the killer, after the medics looked them over. When they simply leaned in, and breathed each other’s air.

“You’re probably beat,” he muttered after a while.

She hummed noncommittally, though in all truth, she was half asleep already. “You might have to wait a few more days for your grape Kool-Aid.”

He grunted a laugh, “I’ll make do.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Lane,” he cut in before she could hang-up.

“Hm?”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” he breathed out.

“Sy?”

He waited.

“Don’t send me anymore sand,” she ordered.

Syverson threw his head back and laughed.


End file.
